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“Feel those forearm muscles, Watson,” he commanded. “Their condition should be of interest to a medical man.”

The muscle of the right forearm indicated considerable strength, consistent with what we knew of Esme Freeling, but that of the left astounded me. It stood out like an egg, and was by far the most highly developed I had ever seen.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “This man must have been left-handed and immensely strong.”

“Freeling was strong, sir,” said Lestrade, in response to my friend’s questioning glance, “but there’s nothing in the files about his being left-handed. Besides, his only sport was rowing, and that would tend to develop both arms equally. Are we to take it, Mr Holmes, that this is not Esme Freeling?”

“Just so,” replied Holmes. “I know of only one activity that can cause such muscular development in a man. The muscle swells like that through years of taking the recoil of a rifle. You know little of this as yet, Lestrade, but Watson is informed. Look at the man, Doctor! Look at his tall stature, his thick brown hair, his large feet. Imagine the moustache and the pale blue eyes, and now tell me who he is.”

“Why,” said I, “surely this can only be the retired gunsmith, George Cresswell!”

“Precisely. We have encountered a singularly brutal and fortunately unsuccessful attempt on the part of a very wicked man to disguise the identity of his victim. Lestrade, I must ask you to restrain your natural impatience until later this evening, for I have to make a few further enquiries. Then, I think I can promise that you shall have your murderer.”

My own impatience must have been quite as great as the police detective’s, and how either of us contrived to bear the waiting I cannot say. Holmes had left us directly, and did not return to our lodgings until the evening was far advanced, but the expression upon his face was one of satisfaction. The three of us proceeded immediately to Hampstead, where we were joined by two uniformed constables from the local Police Station.

Henry Staunton was not pleased to see our companions, but his demeanour changed upon hearing Holmes’s bleak announcement of the disappearance of Mr George Cresswell. This fact, said my friend, meant that the theft of the Grace Chalice must inevitably become a matter for the police.

“Dear me,” observed our client, sententiously. “Such a wicked crime – wicked, sir! Who would have thought it?”

“Who indeed?” replied Sherlock Holmes. “Murder is a very wicked crime, Mr Staunton. And when you add to that the attempt to defraud the insurance company …”

Staunton’s face had turned very pale, and his fleshy features seemed to sag. “Really, sir, I – I fail to understand you!” he blustered.

“Oh, it won’t do, you know. Really it won’t. Mr Lestrade here has a warrant, and we intend to search this house until we find the Grace Chalice – Hold him, gentlemen!”

Staunton, his face twisted with inexpressible malice, had sprung for the door, but in a flash the two constables were upon him. He put up a considerable struggle, but at last I heard the satisfying click of handcuffs.

“I told you,” said Holmes later, when the precious cup had been retrieved from its hiding-place beneath a flagstone in the cellar of The Elms, “that I had some more enquiries to make this afternoon. Well, I discovered, as I had suspected, that our client had gambled heavily upon the Stock Exchange in recent years and, not to mince words, he was now over head and ears in debt. This, of course, was in addition to the large sum that he owed to his easy-going cousin. His plan, clearly, was to stage this false robbery, collect the insurance money, and then to sell the chalice. His cousin was murdered to provide a scapegoat for the crime, and to ensure that the gambling debt need not be paid. The escape from prison of Esme Freeling was merely a fortunate coincidence. There was more to the murder, however, for Henry Staunton hated his cousin as only a mean man can hate a generous and contented one.